


Loyalty

by DAZzle_10



Series: You belong with me [10]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Financial Issues, M/M, Minor Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Post-RWC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-01-24 05:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21332941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: It's a hard time to be an English Saracens player.(Luckily, they've had the last ten years to teach them to stick close to their teammates and their loved ones.)
Relationships: Dylan Hartley/Owen Farrell
Series: You belong with me [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1299182
Comments: 7
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I don't have long to write this, as I'm using Windows on data in the car (actually, I ran out of time in the car and am now on my mobile data hotspot...), but I just want to say that personally, I stand by Saracens, and am somewhat disappointed in the previously staunch supporters I've seen on social media who have turned on them as soon as the news broke.
> 
> Regardless, hope you enjoy!

When, finally, they’ve got all of their bags together and are ready to head off, Owen finds himself hanging back. Honestly, he wants to see Dylan more than anything – needs the warmth of his boyfriend’s embrace at the moment – but the idea of walking out in front of all those fans, everyone who must be so disappointed behind their welcoming masks – if they even bother with any sort of positive pretence – is nauseating. Beyond that, as much as Dylan’s arms call to him, the idea of actually facing his boyfriend, looking Dylan in the eye…

He’s not sure he can.

“Faz, you, er…” Ben nudges him, and Owen looks up at his clubmate to find the younger man glancing between him and the retreating backs of the rest of the squad. “You want to head out, mate?”

There’s nothing for it. If he leaves it too long, there won’t be anyone to distract them from him.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Let’s get going.”

Ben’s attempt at a smile is more of a sympathetic grimace than anything else, but Owen isn’t sure he really cares. Ben, at least, understands some of what he’s going through, if not all of it. The people out there…

He can’t do anything about that. Summoning a weak smile of his own, he starts to push his trolley forward, faintly aware that he actually has Ben’s bags rather than his own. It doesn’t really matter; they can sort it out later.

The applause they receive on stepping into view is nice, Owen supposes, but honestly, it only serves to remind him of what could have been, of how enthusiastic the fans could have been if they’d done their _fucking jobs_. Second wasn’t what they wanted; second was _never_ what they wanted. Owen will make sure he picks himself up and learns and moves on, and he’ll make sure the rest of the boys do the same, but it will, he knows, be a good while yet before it even begins to stop hurting.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts, keeping his head down as he makes his way through the airport, that Dylan’s appearance in front of him almost makes him jump. It doesn’t even take him a second, however, to lurch forward into his boyfriend’s arms, lips meeting sweetly as his hands fall to their natural resting place on Dylan’s shoulders, still so comfortably familiar after all this time. As Dylan’s own fingers curl around Owen’s hips, it’s easy to ignore the cheering of the crowd, setting it aside as unimportant compared to Dylan himself.

“Missed you,” Dylan murmurs candidly on pulling back. “Well done. You did well, yeah?”

Shrugging, Owen pulls a face and reaches out to tug Ben to a stop before the Scrum-half can wander off with Owen’s belongings.

“Oh,” Ben blinks, apparently not having noticed the switch. “Right. Thanks, mate. Hi, Dyls.”

“Alright?” Dylan reaches out to shake his hand. “Congratulations on your World Cup debut, mate.”

“Thanks…” Ben sighs, deflating immediately, and Dylan nods in understanding.

“I know it doesn’t feel great at the moment,” the older man starts carefully, “But it will. One day.”

When Ben has turned away, wandering off towards the exit, Owen reaches for his own kit, stopping and blinking when Dylan takes it from him.

“You’ve worked hard for months,” his boyfriend tells him. “If you think I’m going to leave you to haul your bags out of here, you’re very much mistaken.”

Bemused, Owen allows himself to be led to the exit, aware that he already feels lighter than he has since the final whistle blew on Saturday. As far as he’s aware, literally everyone else has taken their own kit, so he’s not sure why Dylan’s making such a big deal of it. Still, he’s not exactly going to complain.

“How are you feeling?” Dylan asks quietly as he lifts Owen’s kit into the boot of the car, Owen hanging around slightly awkwardly since Dylan swatted his hands away when he tried to help.

“I guess…” Owen searches for a truthfully positive response and gives up when Dylan eyes him knowingly. “Shit, to be honest. But I think… When I’ve had a few days, I’ll look at moving on. I just need…”

“Yeah,” Dylan nods, a sad smile curling his lips for a second. “I… I don’t really want to spring this on you right now, but there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Immediately worried, Owen feels himself straighten automatically.

“What –?”

“We can talk in the car,” Dylan adds, closing the boot, and reluctantly, Owen makes his away around the vehicle to slip into the passenger seat.

For several minutes, Dylan doesn’t speak, instead focused on pulling out of his space and finding the carpark exit. Owen waits impatiently, knee bouncing a little as he examines Dylan’s expression to see if he can find anything in that to explain the serious note in Dylan’s tone. Dylan gives away nothing, besides that it probably wouldn’t go down well to try and push.

“I’ve been talking with Saints,” the older man starts finally, when they’re away from the airport altogether, and his knuckles are white on the steering wheel, attracting Owen’s gaze when his fingers flex for a second before tightening once more. “They’re not sure… And, I mean, _I_’m not sure… We’re not sure if returning to rugby is going to work out.”

Owen doesn’t know what it says about the situation lately that he doesn’t feel particularly surprised, although he can’t find another reaction that could help Dylan when his boyfriend is blinking rapidly, one hand lifting from the steering wheel to press the heel of its palm into Dylan’s eyes.

“It’s not my knee,” Dylan continues, which _does_ take Owen by surprise. “It’s my head. I’ve had a lot of concussions over the last few years, and I have to start looking ahead, and weighing up the risks and benefits. I want to be able to lead a long and happy life, and… Going back to playing isn’t necessarily looking like the right route at the moment.”

That, Owen really doesn’t have anything to say to. He can’t decide what to prioritise: worry over Dylan’s head and the potential consequences, both now and in the future; concern over Dylan’s emotional and psychological health; or simple logistics of what and how and when.

“I’m sorry,” he settles for, as Dylan blows out a slightly shaky breath. “I – Dyl…”

“We haven’t made a decision yet,” Dylan tells him quickly. “But that’s where we’re at. I just… thought you should know.”

Nodding even though Dylan can’t look to see it, Owen turns his own eyes to his lap. Dylan’s career could soon be over – or rather, it could have been over since last December. Dylan’s concussion problems might be worse than they thought, never mind the knee. Dylan clearly doesn’t want to stop playing, no matter what he’s said over the last few months.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks, trying to keep his voice soft but not pitying.

Dylan only shakes his head.

“I think it has to be between me and Saints.”

“But…” Owen chews his lip. “If you want to talk, or…”

“Right,” Dylan sounds almost surprised, and Owen isn’t sure whether or not to be offended by that. “Yeah, maybe. We’ll see how it goes.”

Slowly, Owen nods, and Dylan draws in a deep breath, then lets the air gradually out; Owen can see the movement of his boyfriend’s chest out of the corner of his eye.

“I’ve talked to Chris – Boyd. He’s agreed to let us go on holiday for a bit.”

Surprised by the change of subject, Owen blinks.

“I’d need to talk to Mark –”

“Already done,” Dylan assures him, smiling a little despite the moisture in his eyes. “I’ve got the flights and everything booked already. I’m taking you out of the country for a little while, alright? Get you a break from it all.”

“Mandatory rest?” Owen rolls his eyes. “You’re kidnapping me, is what you’re telling me.”

“If I have to,” Dylan shrugs, a grin now spreading across his face. “I mean, if you want to try some roleplay…”

“No!” Owen yelps, even as his cheeks burn, flame licking along his skin.

“No?” Dylan prods. “I could steal you from your home and have my way with you, just a poor, innocent, little –”

“Stop…”

Mortified, Owen covers his ears with his hands as Dylan keeps going.

“Please, _stop_…”

He lifts his hands away again to listen to Dylan’s delighted laughter.

When Owen is called in on Tuesday morning, he doesn’t think anything of it. It’ll probably be a check-in of sorts, after the World Cup – a way of touching base, before he heads off with Dylan for wherever Dylan’s got planned, which his boyfriend is staying stubbornly quiet about. The news, therefore, blindsides him completely, knocking the wind that he’s just started to gather in his sails post-World Cup straight back out.

He sits, silent and still, as the words float through one ear and out the other, stuck on a single sentence which hasn’t stopped clamouring in his skull since it was first uttered. He can think of nothing to say or do, his mind blank of almost everything even as a quietly indignant anger starts to build, fuelled by the uncertainty – bordering almost on fear – that fizzes uncomfortably in his gut. _The investigation has found us guilty of breaking the salary cap, so they’ve docked 35 points and are fining us just over 5.3 million. _

“What –” He manages finally. “What does that mean for…?”

_For me? For my job? For the club, my teammates, the co-investments, our future both this season and onwards?_

“As we said,” comes the patient, sympathetic reply, “We’re going to ask for a review. They’ve acknowledged that we did nothing deliberately wrong, so that definitely gives us a foot to stand on, alright? We’ve got independent legal experts to back us up that the co-investments don’t come under the salary cap. For the time being, we’ve got to look at what may need to be done, but we won’t be selling anyone, and the co-investments won’t be scrapped, alright?”

Slightly nauseous, Owen nods and tries not to think too hard about the implications of the report: that people think they’ve cheated, that all their hard work will be undermined by this, that people will question both his and his teammates’ integrity.

“Alright,” he manages weakly. “Was… that all?”

He’s almost not sure he wants to know the answer.

“Yes,” he’s assured. “Enjoy your holiday – make sure you take a mental break as well as a physical one.”

Slowly, he rises from his seat, reaching out for the obligatory handshake then fumbling his way around his chair to the door, mind already racing onwards.

What’s he going to tell Dylan? What if Dylan thinks he’s cheated the salary cap? Or his England teammates? Eddie? The fans aren’t going to be happy, but he can deal with that, because they’re Saracens, and everyone hates Saracens. That doesn’t make the questions that will surely come about what they’ve achieved any easier to stomach.

“Faz!”

He turns at the sound of Jamie’s voice, relieved to see several of his teammates standing together, all with similarly indignant frowns etched into their faces.

“This is fucking ridiculous, mate,” Jamie mutters, reaching out to pull him in. “They literally _agreed_ we didn’t do anything deliberately, and they still want to give us the maximum penalty.”

“_35 _points,” Loz emphasises, nodding. “You know where that puts us? _-26_ points. Fucking twats.”

“They have to suspend the sanction while it’s reviewed,” Owen points out wearily, and his exhaustion must be a little too clear, because Brad’s arm comes to rest around his shoulders, tugging him a little closer. “We’ve just got to gun for it, alright? They think they’ve got us with this, so we’ll come back and show them. No matter what happens, this _doesn’t_ mean we’re relegated.”

There. That’s a bit better.

“Hearing you loud and clear,” Mako salutes with a sardonic smile. “Nah, lads, we hold it together, like Faz said, and we pull ourselves closer, yeah?”

Owen nods in agreement.

“We’ll get through this,” Brad offers. “You International boys, go and enjoy your time off – me and Loz and the rest of the lads will look after things back here.”

“Sounds good,” Jamie confirms, reaching down to smack Mako’s arse. “C’mon, Mak, let’s get going.”

Owen watches the two head off, aware that he should get back to Dylan at some point. It’s just that this is going to be released some time today, and he doesn’t know whether he should break the news first, or wait around until Dylan sees the news, or give it a few hours so that Dylan can digest it before he even thinks of coming home.

“Alright?” Brad murmurs, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” Owen shakes himself. “Don’t know what I’m going to say to Dyl, but…”

He shrugs.

“I’ll work something out.”

For a moment, Brad eyes him in concern, and he fights not to meet the older man’s eyes.

“You take care of yourself,” Brad tells him finally. “Take a good break – Dylan’s taking you somewhere, right?”

“Yeah,” Owen nods, twisting his lips as he allows himself to be distracted. “He won’t tell me where, though.”

Snorting quietly, Brad shakes his head, then provides one last pat to Owen’s shoulder.

“Right, I’d get home and talk to him now, if I were you,” comes the sympathetic advice. “I’ll see you in a week or two.”

“See you, mate,” Owen returns, already stepping away to head out to his car.

Time to tell Dylan, then.

As he makes his way from the building, everything starts to hit home a little more strongly. What if this ends up like Black Monday? The thought of being called into that office and –

He doesn’t think Saracens would do that to him. Then again, he doesn’t think Saracens would do that to any of them.

But this is the club’s reputation, his reputation, all but down the drain. Yes, so no one really likes them, but they were still proving everyone wrong with their success. Now, that success has been undermined, and Owen wants to find anyone who dares suggest they wouldn’t have won what they have without this and shake them, but they wouldn’t listen to him. Of course they wouldn’t.

What if PRL go back on their assurance that this won’t take away their past trophies? What if all of the other clubs demand a stronger punishment? What if they don’t care about anything the review brings?

Owen feels sick thinking about it.

It’s with a strange sense of numbness starting to spread from his extremities inwards that he climbs into his car. His fingers, his toes and his face seem to tingle, his chest a little tight as he draws in as deep a breath as he can manage and lets it out. All he can do, he reminds himself firmly, is trust the club, just like he always has done.

With hands that shake just a little, he fastens his seatbelt then settles his foot on the clutch, fumbling around for it a little; it almost seems to have moved from where he remembers it being.

Shit, there’s so much uncertainty right now. There’s an outside chance he’ll lose his job, and if he doesn’t, some of his teammates may well. If he does, will anyone else _want_ him? Yes, he knows that he’s one of the best Fly-halves in the country, but that doesn’t mean anything if the clubs question his integrity, or what damage his reputation could do to them.

Then again, London Irish signed Paddy Jackson quite enthusiastically, so maybe he’ll be alright on that front.

Slowly, he starts the car and pulls out of his space, guiding the vehicle out onto the road.

He doesn’t want to leave Saracens. He wants to stay here, with the club he loves and trusts, with the teammates he assigns those same values to and who expect the same from him as he does from them, and keep winning. He wants to prove that they don’t need to _cheat_ – they _never_ cheated – to do what they’ve done.

And so the thoughts cycle on. Several times, his vision starts to blur a little – and really, who could blame him? His job and salary have been threatened, both his club’s and his own reputation have been damaged possibly irreparably, and he doesn’t know what’s going to happen. This is his entire livelihood in question, and far more than that, too.

And on top of that, he doesn’t know what he’s going to tell Dylan – his boyfriend at another club, who hasn’t exactly hidden his dislike for Saracens’ success at times in the past, who has his own worries over his job that Owen doesn’t need to add to.

When he gets home, Dylan isn’t there, and Owen doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or just sit still and feel relieved. If he could do all three at once, he probably would; as it is, he settles for pacing anxiously in the living room, waiting for his boyfriend to get back from wherever he’s gone. Perhaps he should be glad that he has time to work out what he’s going to say, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to make any use of it. Right now, he’s too agitated to consider what phrasing will get the best reaction from Dylan; it doesn’t seem any different no matter how it runs through in his head.

By the time Dylan gets home, Owen thinks he might well be in a worse state now than he was when he left St Albans. On hearing the engine of Dylan’s car outside, his heart seems to jump, rising up to his throat until he can swallow it down to breathe again. As he waits for the door to open, his back prickles a little, his palms sticky, and he’s not sure what bothers him more: the decision itself, now that he’s had more time to dwell on it, or the thought of having to talk it through with Dylan.

“Honey, I’m home!” Dylan calls through the house, and Owen can’t even manage a smile at the obvious glee in Dylan’s tone at being able to do so.

Briefly, he debates waiting for Dylan to wander through to the living room, but decides that the wait would probably make it all worse, so instead he heads out of the room to find Dylan leaning against the front door to remove his shoes.

“Dylan,” he croaks, then has to cough to clear his throat; it takes long enough for Dylan to look up with a frown and obviously see that he isn’t too happy.

“What’s wrong?” the older man asks immediately, straightening with one shoe still semi-fastened on his foot, the other discarded a foot or two away.

“They’ve, um…” Owen swallows, squeezing his eyes tightly shut for a second. “They’ve released the decision. About the salary cap investigation.”

“Ah,” Dylan nods, grimacing as comprehension appears to dawn. “Right.”

Something about the instantly negative reaction, although Owen knows the outcome must show on his face, rubs him the wrong way.

“They’re docking us 35 points,” he continues stiffly, and Dylan still doesn’t look surprised. “And there’s a fine of 5 million. They’re saying we went over the salary cap for _three years_.”

“Well…” Dylan sighs, pulls a face, shrugs. “Did we expect anything else?”

Incredulous, Owen can only gape at him for a few seconds.

“Yes?” he manages, and Dylan’s eyebrows rise. “We didn’t break the salary cap!”

“Owen…” Dylan groans. “Come on, love.”

For once, the pet name does nothing for Owen.

“_We didn’t do anything_ _wrong_,” he bites out, frustrated as his fingers flex then curl into fists. “You think we just decided, ‘Oh, let’s break the fucking salary cap today’?”

“I’m not saying you did it deliberately,” Dylan rolls his eyes. “Or at least, not you and Mako and that –”

“You’re saying you think Nigel _lied_ to us?” Owen interrupts, furious. “That’s fucking bullshit! I don’t know what they do at Saints, but Sarries don’t –”

“Right, don’t bring Saints into this,” Dylan talks over him. “I don’t know why you’re getting so angry about this –”

“We could be relegated!” Owen raises his voice to get his point across, and is gratified when Dylan falls silent to listen. “That’s our reputation down the fucking drain, everything we’ve worked _so fucking hard_ for supposedly for nothing; people are saying we’ve been cheated for _years_! My teammates, my _friends_, could lose their jobs – _I_ could lose my job – and you _don’t know why I’m angry_?”

“Owen,” Dylan starts, more softly now, but Owen isn’t done.

“They were ready to put us on _-26_ points. Who even knows what the other clubs – including Saints, so you can bet you’re fucking arse I’ll bring them into it – will try to demand? If they want to punish us more, or – or cut us out entirely, and then what are we meant to do? What do _I_ do? My whole career hangs in the balance of twelve organisations who don’t like us simply for the fact that we worked _harder_ than them to be _better_, for _longer_. And you don’t know why I’m angry? No, I’m not angry – I’m fucking _furious_!”

Dylan’s mouth opens, then closes. Desperately, Owen tries to catch his breath, chest heaving as his cheeks burn and his eyes sting a little. He didn’t mean to get so worked up about it – at least, not externally – but it all just came pouring out, and he almost feels better for it.

“Right,” Dylan supplies finally, weak and subdued. “I – Owen, you’re not going to lose your job. They’ve set the punishment, and they’re not going to make that worse, either. Alright? I can see you’re stressed, but they’re not about to throw you completely to the dogs.”

“What about Brad?” Owen points out. “His contract comes up this year. What about the other lads at the end of their contracts? What if the other clubs decide to boycott our matches? That’s a genuine possibility, Dyl – particularly now we’ve asked for a review. I just…”

Shakily, he wipes his eyes and looks away, trying to hide the tears welling in them.

“No one meant to hide anything,” he manages to get out, voice smaller than he’d like it to be. “And we didn’t cheat.”

“Look,” Dylan sighs. “I’m not an expert. I’ll be honest, this is what I expected, but… I’m not going to argue about it with you. There’s nothing you can do about it right now, so if I were you, I’d put it out of your mind as best as you can.”

Honestly, Owen’s not entirely sure he’s happy with that, but he lets it lie, merely chewing his lip as he slumps against the wall. Dylan sees right through the weak pretence, finally toeing off his second shoe then wandering over to pull Owen into a secure embrace, arms strong and chest warm.

“It’ll be alright,” Dylan murmurs, running a soothing hand up and down Owen’s back. “Just put everything out of your mind, and we’ll be out of the country in a few days. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Owen acknowledges wearily, and he doesn’t think it’s really going to work like that, but he can’t be bothered to disagree with Dylan about this as well.

“Come on,” Dylan walks him back into the living room without letting go. “Let’s just sit down and watch something, alright?”

Owen allows himself to be guided to the couch, sitting down and leaning into Dylan’s side once his boyfriend has found the remote. Dylan’s arm settles over his shoulders, pulling him closer still, and Owen sinks into the warmth as he tries to push his stress to the side. Even if he’s not sure he’ll manage to distract himself from everything, it would probably be nice to give it a go. Especially if it means he gets to just cuddle with Dylan for a while; he’s spent far too long away from his boyfriend, and he’s not going to pass up a chance to start making up for it.

“Love you,” he murmurs after a few minutes, and Dylan’s head turns, lips pressing into his hair for several prolonged seconds.

“I love you too.”

Owen tries his best to stay away from the news over the rest of the day, but it’s difficult. The Saracens group-chat is constantly active, messages buzzing back and forth in a flurry of uncertainty and reassurance, and it becomes clear pretty quickly that Owen isn’t the only one thinking back to Black Monday. They _have _come a long way since then, though; that was the point of it all, wasn’t it?

“Wow,” Dylan mutters at one point, staring down at his phone. “_Jesus_.”

“What?” Owen demands, and doesn’t miss Dylan’s guilty expression. “It’s about the salary cap, isn’t it?”

Deflating, Dylan nods and grimaces.

“John Kingston wants your trophies and titles from the last three years stripped,” comes the reluctant explanation, then Dylan’s eyes are drawn elsewhere, and he adds, “And Exeter are considering boycotting the match against your lads in December.”

“_Shit_.”

Owen sinks in his seat, blowing out a slow breath as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t know if I should apologise to the lads,” he admits quietly. “I mean, most of them never even…”

“No,” Dylan says immediately. “That won’t help anything. You didn’t think there was anything wrong with it, so it’s definitely not your fault.”

“I guess…” Owen concedes, chewing the nail of his thumb. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“Come here,” Dylan reaches out to tug him in. “It’s going to be fine, remember? If some of the other clubs want to throw a tantrum, that’s their choice.”

Owen snorts reluctantly, but can’t help opening his mouth.

“Would you say that if Saints was doing this?” he asks cautiously, and Dylan stiffens slightly.

“I… They haven’t, have they?”

Maybe, Owen supposes, that is simply the answer. Nodding to concede the point, he feels Dylan relax against him.

“Phil did respond to questions,” his boyfriend admits quietly. “Phil Dawson, that is – Forwards coach.”

“Yeah, I recognise the name,” Owen assures; he’s met the man once or twice before. “What did he say.”

“Played it down,” Dylan shrugs. “It doesn’t guarantee that we’ll finish above you lads and all that.”

“That’s good of him,” Owen allows, then reaches for his phone as it buzzes again.

“Sarries group-chat?” Dylan asks, peering over to see the screen, and Owen nods. “Who’s saying what, then?”

_Brad: Let’s just make it clear that no one is blaming anyone else in this team for what’s happening. As far as we all knew, and still know, it’s all been above board, and any wrongdoings were accidental. We stick together through this, as a team and a family. If they still want to throw the book at us after the review is over, they can do that, but we stick it right back at them on the pitch and the pitch ONLY. _

Wordlessly, Owen tilts his phone to let Dylan read the message properly, waiting while Dylan adjusts his glasses and squints at the writing and letting Dylan nudge his hand a little further away by a light grip on his wrist.

“That’s nice,” Dylan comments finally. “See? Don’t apologise.”

“Yes, yes,” Owen rolls his eyes. “You told me so and all that.”

“I did,” Dylan confirms, audibly pleased. “Now, seeing as my previous plans to distract you haven’t worked, and you’ve spent a long time in Japan without me, I think you should put your phone down and I’ll try something new.”

“Yeah?” Owen asks, playing coy even as he sets his phone aside and twists slightly to grin at his boyfriend. “What’s the new plan, then – _fucking hell_, Dylan!”

Suspicious, he glares down at the arms which have just dragged him backwards onto Dylan’s thighs, even as they loop innocently around his waist. Reluctantly, he can’t help but feel impressed – but he’s not about to tell Dylan that.

“Have you been working out more?” he demands instead, to a wry snort before Dylan’s lips press to his neck, trailing kisses slowly up to find his lips.

It’s an awkward angle, Owen half-twisted in Dylan’s lap with one hand caught on Dylan’s shoulder to hook himself in while the other supports him against the back of the couch, pushing slightly away, but Owen’s not entirely sure he minds.

Honestly, he quite likes this new plan of Dylan’s.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is apparently going to be an ongoing fic after all (it feels like it's been a really long time since I added a chapter to anything)... And I feel even less clear about exactly what the punishment is meant to be for than I did originally, which is... fun! Still, sticking with the boys, obviously. And as much as I understand that some people are angry, and I'm not going to begrudge them some strongly-worded tweets (if they could fact-check instead of making false accusations, though, that'd be great), I'm nothing short of disgusted by the people blaming the Saracens players and using this as an excuse to make cheap shots at the lads - particularly Owen, and I don't even know why I'm surprised about that... He gets a seriously bad rap online - which is probably too obvious to be written here, but there we go - and he seems to be starting to get a mild version of the same on here sometimes, which is... sad. 
> 
> But anyway. Hope you enjoy me being unimpressed with Dylan for taking a stab at Sarries but ultimately respecting that Dylan's a nice guy and as such recognises when he's been a dick to people he cares about. ...I have no idea why I wrote that sentence, but I kinda like it, so I'm not going to delete it. (Oh, and I updated the last chapter, because I never actually proofread it or anything, so although I can't quite be bothered to switch it up completely, I've sorted a few minor vocabulary choices and generally typos/mistakes.)

_Jamie: What the fuck is your boyfriend playing at?_

The text, when it comes through just an hour or so after he arrived home from spending the morning at the club, means nothing to Owen. Blankly, he stares at his phone, trying to recall anything that might have warranted that kind of reaction – not that he’s entirely sure whether Jamie’s genuinely angry or if this is some kind of joke.

Cautiously, he settles for a single question mark, the safe option, when he has absolutely no clue what Jamie’s on about. Dylan has travelled back up to Northampton for the day to announce his retirement, so it’s not like he can ask his boyfriend – or at the very least, not without it taking longer to get a response than asking Jamie directly, because Dylan’s likely fairly busy with various interviews and whatever article he’s started writing for the Daily Mail (fucking cunts) now.

When Jamie replies, a few minutes later, it’s with a link. Warily, Owen opens it, unsure what to expect, and blinks when a tweet from Dylan loads up on his screen.

‘_Only took 8 seasons to get there_,’ he skims over, ignoring the emoji altogether and dropping his gaze to the shared tweet from Rugby on BT Sport to realise that Dylan’s referring to Saints’ Premiership win in 2014. ‘_but best day of my rugby career no doubt_’

Confused, he scans over it again, unable to work out what Jamie could be referring to, and then again, more carefully – until finally, he bothers to read the hashtag.

_Fucking bastard._

Gritting his teeth, he clenches his free hand tightly and tries to ignore the rising sense of betrayal, ridding his phone of the tweet quickly so that he doesn’t have to see it anymore and only then realising that Jamie has sent him another link, this time with added text:

_RT’d this too:_

Reluctantly, Owen clicks it and scans over the tweet, jaw tensing by the second as he wonders where along the line Dylan decided that actually, no, he wasn’t happy just to be a supportive boyfriend and _not_ kick Owen’s team when they’re down.

‘_Well that went quick mate all the best to you and Owen at least he has the money for it @DylanHartley_’ reads the second tweet – the one Dylan apparently liked enough to share himself, because it’s not enough to publicly go after Owen’s club, but he also has to encourage people to go after Owen himself.

_Guessing you hadn’t seen that?_ Jamie asks him.

_No_, Owen replies, and can’t think of anything else to add on, too busy trying to fathom why Dylan would even _consider_ going down this road; surely, it’s just extra effort to add that hashtag, and would it really be so hard to avoid retweeting _one_ person’s message of support?

_Want me to come over_?

As Owen’s thumbs hover over his phone, he realises vaguely that the digits are shaking – whether with hurt or fury, he’s not entirely sure. Quite probably, it’s both.

_Please._

He probably needs the distraction to stop him from doing something he’ll regret tomorrow. Then again, right now, he can’t imagine he’d ever regret any of the ideas flashing through his head.

Why would Dylan do that, though? He _knows_ Owen’s cut up about this, he knows that they’ve already teetered on the edge of one argument over it, and Owen thought he’d come around to the fact that no one did any of it deliberately. Owen thought, too, that Dylan had more respect for Saracens, and for Owen himself, than to suggest that they needed the supposed advantage of ‘breaching the cap’ to win their titles.

_Fuck_, he wants to punch something. Preferably, Dylan’s smug face, with the mocking smirk he’d probably be wearing if he’d even had the guts to say this to Owen’s face.

If Dylan thinks Owen will just sit back and take this, he’d better think again.

“How are you feeling?” Jamie asks on drawing back from the greeting hug he’d pulled Owen into, mere seconds after the door had shut.

“Like I have a fucking cunt of a boyfriend,” Owen supplies, not bothering to hide the sense of betrayal or the anger; this is Jamie, perhaps his closest friend, who supports him and _doesn’t_ turn on him or prey on his weaknesses like a coward.

“You do,” Jamie tells him honestly. “He’s up in Northampton, isn’t he?”

Nodding, Owen steps back to lead Jamie into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle without even bothering to ask if Jamie wants coffee; of course he does. He always does.

“Fortunate for him,” Jamie adds, slow and careful as he eyes Owen, and Owen can only nod again, an unspoken confirmation of exactly how furious he is about this. “You want me to call him for you? Tell him not to come back tonight.”

“That might…” Owen bites his tongue, considering the suggestion as he busies himself with tidying some plates into the dishwasher. “That might be for the best.”

That, at least, will give him more time to work out what he wants to do about this.

“I’ll do that now,” Jamie assures him. “Then if you want to vent…”

“Yeah,” Owen nods, sucking in a sharp breath, then lets the air back out in one rough exhale. “Yeah.”

For the first minute of the call, he tries to keep his focus away from what Jamie’s saying, distracting himself by finishing up the coffee and fixing up the designs in as fastidious a manner as he can manage with his hands still shaking a little. When Jamie snorts loudly, however, he finds himself caught on the bitter anger in the sound, and with the coffee done, there’s nothing more to keep him from listening in.

“Oh, you think?” his friend bites out, sharp and cold. “If you had any fucking respect for Owen – or for us – you wouldn’t have put it out there.”

For a second, Jamie pauses.

“Just don’t come back tonight,” he tells Dylan flatly, voice hard as granite. “Maybe tomorrow morning, but if the first words past your lips aren’t some sort of apology, I’ll be over to take care of whatever Owen leaves of you.”

Again, Jamie falls silent.

“Yeah, you’d better be!” he snaps. “You do something like that to him again, you’ll fucking pay, you hear me? You don’t fuck around with my – with Owen, and that’s not an idle threat.”

A matter of seconds later, Jamie hangs up and drops his phone onto the table to land with a thunderous clatter.

“Fucking cunt,” he mutters, then takes a deep breath. “He _sounds_ genuinely sorry, and I think he’s going to delete it, but he shouldn’t have done it in the first place.”

“I thought…” Owen trails off, unsure how to phrase what he wants to say.

He thought Dylan would support him, and Saracens, in this.

He thought Dylan cared more about him than about likes on social media.

“He hasn’t even _thought_ about what this could look like for you!” Jamie exclaims, sudden enough to make Owen jump slightly and almost spill the coffee; quickly, he sets both mugs down on the counter, nudging one over to Jamie, so that he can’t drop one. “I mean, what are people going to think about you if your own boyfriend’s saying things like that? If he thinks he can get away with being a fucking cunt to you…”

“Jinx,” Owen has to cut in quietly, though he’s not really sure he minds.

It’s a strangely nice feeling, sometimes, when Jamie gets this protective, because Owen knows that he won’t get overbearing, and he always backs off when Owen asks. All it is, is a show of how much he cares, and it’s been a while since Owen’s heard this, because it really only comes out when Owen’s going through a rough time with his love-life. He’d almost forgotten how comfortable the warm fuzziness it brings to his chest can be.

“Sorry,” Jamie sighs. “He’s just a dick, and I – You know, I’ve had enough of your boyfriends fucking you over.”

“You’ve always had enough of my boyfriends fucking me over,” Owen rolls his eyes. “This isn’t even… It’s just a few tweets. I don’t know why I…”

“It’s not ‘just a few tweets’ when you’ve been together about two years,” Jamie reasons. “Come on. You said you wanted to vent, mate. Don’t start pretending you’re not allowed to be cut up over this.”

Owen huffs in quiet protest, a little discomforted by Jamie reading him so easily, but opens his mouth nonetheless.

“He said he’d expected it when I first told him about the decision,” he starts slowly, index finger tracing over the rim of his mug. “We almost argued, but… I don’t know, he kind of backed down. He seemed pretty supportive by the end of the day. Said, you know, I should just ignore everyone – if the other clubs wanted to throw tantrums and that… Maybe he just couldn’t be bothered to argue.”

His lips twist with the last sentence, the thought that Dylan’s platitudes and soothing comments could have been empty and meaningless leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. Jamie watches him in silent concern, merely listening without judging.

“And now he’s come out with…”

Waving a hand at his phone, he huffs a resentful laugh.

“I just – I thought… He _knows_ it’s been bothering me, he _knows_ no one broke the rules deliberately, he’s listened to everything I’ve said about it, and he still…?”

Jamie nods along, lips tightening into a single line, but says nothing.

“I mean, is this his way of saying he doesn’t respect us?” Owen continues, shrugging in an attempt to hide exactly how much that idea distresses him. “Does he think we couldn’t have done it without _cheating_? Is he saying everything we’ve done – everything _I_’ve done – means nothing, now? What, our trophies mean less than his because of a decision that’s being reviewed? Because someone made some mistakes in the paperwork? The fact of the matter is, we have a brilliant culture, and – and I’d take a fucking pay-cut to stay at this club, and I reckon most of the lads would do the same. Sarries – The club does so much for all our families, right?”

Jamie nods again, and his brow furrows as he seems to realise where Owen’s going with this new line of spoken thought.

“They do so much for our families,” Owen reiterates, “And that includes _him_. And he’s not even – he’s not even grateful. He doesn’t even care. Like suddenly, as soon as it’s fashionable to hate us again, he’s jumping on the fucking bandwagon like you boys didn’t welcome him in even though he’s a fucking Saint! Like – Like he didn’t celebrate our Prem win last season, like the club means nothing to him, and – and he _knows_ what the club is to me, so if he’s willing to kick us when we’re down, what does that say about – about –”

Sniffing, he lifts his forearms to wipe away the sudden surge of moisture in his eyes.

“He knows we’re a family,” he adds, a little more hoarse, now. “He _knows_ how brilliant the club is – he’s _seen_ it, because we all let him in. Because you boys did that for me. And he thinks he can just – just undermine our loyalty, our integrity, our – our – He thinks he can just strip all that away and call us cheats for a _mistake_. I mean, never mind what he knows about the club, and how much he’s seen of all the reasons people come here – never mind that he knows it’s not about the money – what fucking business does he have insulting my – my _family_, pretty much? You’d think he’d – he’d have the fucking decency to say it to my face, at any rate…”

Finally, he seems to have run out of things to say, unable to come up with anything new to express the storm of emotions inside at the moment, and Jamie must know it, because his friend reaches out, tugging him in for a tight hug. Owen’s all too willing to bury his face in Jamie’s shoulder, hands gripping the back of Jamie’s jumper as he lets a little bit of the building stress drain out of him.

“I don’t know what I’m going to say to him,” he admits finally, words muffled by Jamie’s shoulder.

“What do you want to say?” Jamie returns, soft and almost cautious.

“I want to tell him he’s a fucking dick,” Owen supplies at once, then can’t think of anything else.

For a moment, Jamie is silent.

“Is this…” his friend starts, then stops once more, seemingly reluctant to continue his question. “Could this… end it, do you think?”

That stumps Owen. It seems like such a small, trivial thing when he tries to look at it from what he assumes is Dylan’s perspective, and yet, it really isn’t. Saracens are a second family to Owen, and Dylan should know that – never mind that rugby is both his career and so much more, that it means so much to Owen, and that, at the very least, Dylan should understand that to suggest so flippantly that Owen’s – and Saracens’ – success might be underpinned by cheating is way over the line.

And yet it’s Dylan.

“I don’t…”

Lost, he trails off. Every time he thinks about what Dylan’s done, it seems worse than it did before, and yet, he can’t imagine breaking up with Dylan so quickly and suddenly, over something which is mostly external to their relationship. The thought doesn’t sit well with him at all.

“I don’t think so?” he manages weakly, and Jamie hums questioningly. “I think… Maybe if it was anyone else…”

“Then make sure he knows that,” Jamie suggests. “Tell him that if it was anyone else, they’d be gone. I think he knows he’s crossed a line, but make sure he does.”

“Maybe…” Owen concedes, because it sounds good in theory, but the idea of actually _doing_ that is unsettling; Owen has never been a big one for personal confrontations.

“It’s upset you, yeah?” Jamie prods him. “A lot. And he shouldn’t have done it. If he’s worth keeping around, he’ll feel like shit just knowing what he’s done to _you_.”

Jamie’s probably right about that. To be fair, Owen can already imagine how agitated Dylan must be at the moment, and it’s irritating to have to battle the part of him that wants to put his boyfriend out of his misery, knowing that it will feel worse for himself if he lets Dylan off the hook instantly. He needs to work his own frustrations out instead of just letting it slide so easily.

He doesn’t actually think he could let this slide if he tried.

“Thanks, mate,” he sighs, hearing the weariness in his own voice. “How… How are you feeling about it all?”

“Like it’s bullshit,” is Jamie’s immediate reply, the older man drawing away from their embrace with a frown.

Silent, Owen nods. That sounds like an apt description.

Falling asleep without Dylan is… difficult. Owen’s not used to sleeping alone anymore, having spent the last however-many-months with one roommate or another and then with Dylan staying down in Harpenden for the last few days. Once Jamie leaves, the house feels strangely quiet and empty, too, and even Ronnie can’t make up for it; he doesn’t like not having anyone around, particularly with nothing else to do besides menial household tasks. By the time he gets to bed, he feels unsettled, restless, and it does nothing to help him find a more rational perspective on Dylan’s twitter activity.

Eventually, however, he sinks into a broken sleep, woken multiple times throughout the night and each time, feeling colder than he’s used to, without the warmer climate of Japan or Dylan’s body heat pressed up next to him. Even his dreams seem to want in on the action, twisting their way through meandering tales of job loss and humiliation, of being stripped of titles and cast out as a club, of Dylan revealing that Owen’s success was the only reason he was interested and dropping Owen as soon as it started to waver. None of it is entirely logical, Owen knows – some ideas more extreme in their irrationality than others – but that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach.

When morning comes, he almost feels worse than he did the night before. All the same, he gets himself up, ignoring the ever-present twinges of various muscles and joints, and sets about making coffee and breakfast for himself, trying to distract from the urge to simply stare out of the window until Dylan gets home. Really, Owen doesn’t even know if Dylan’s planning to come home this morning.

Owen doesn’t know if he _wants_ Dylan to come home this morning. He’s still furious, there’s no denying that, and betrayal has been a sour presence in his mouth through the entire night.

It doesn’t matter, though; if or when Dylan arrives, then he’ll deal with that as it comes. Until then, he just has to get on with his day, and that starts with taking Ronnie for a walk – preferably, somewhere he won’t be seen by anyone, neighbours or otherwise.

It’s after he’s been back for half an hour that he hears Dylan’s car outside. As petty as he feels for it, he can’t resist peering out of the window to catch a glimpse of his boyfriend and gauge Dylan’s emotions, strangely satisfied to see the worry etched deeply into Dylan’s expression. As Dylan approaches the door, he finds himself wandering over to wait, stomach clenching with an unsettling mixture of apprehension, anger and hurt. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to say or do, how he’s meant to deal with this in a way that won’t feel cheap to him but won’t make anything worse either.

To his surprise, Dylan rings the doorbell; the sound makes him jump, his muscles so tightly wound that his entire body jolts with shock then freezes for a second, until he can loosen his limbs and reach out to answer the door.

Close up, Dylan looks even more distraught than he did through the window.

“Owen, I am so, _so_ sorry – I wasn’t thinking, love, I promise –”

“Just get inside,” Owen tells him, unsure whether his voice is sharper or softer than he intended it to be, and Dylan nods hurriedly, stepping in and hovering with clear uncertainty while Owen closes the door. “You’re a fucking dick, you know that?”

Immediately, Dylan nods again.

“It was meant to be a joke, but I know it wasn’t funny – I’ve deleted it, alright? I should’ve thought before I…”

“Before you decided to kick us when we’re down?” Owen fills in bitterly, and Dylan’s eyes close.

“Yes,” the older man acknowledges. “Yes, before that.”

It’s almost enough to soothe Owen’s anger, to see Dylan so easily admitting that he was wrong, that what he did was wrong. _Almost_. He needs to get everything out there about this, though, to make sure that this never happens again, that Dylan understands exactly how out of line he was.

“They’re a second family to me,” he tells his boyfriend stiffly, “Which you _know_. They’ve welcomed you with – with open arms for me, because that’s what we do for each other. Because we all – we care about each other. And _that_’s why people want to come here, not for some stupid fucking salary. We’d all take a pay-cut to stay here, because that’s how – how fucking _brilliant_ the club is, which you bloody well know! Because they let you in, and _this_ is how you – how you repay them? By suggesting that our success doesn’t mean as much as yours, or – or that we needed to cheat to do it? We’ve all worked our fucking arses off for our trophies, and we’d do it for less if anyone asked us to, and if you _dare_ suggest otherwise again, then that will be _it_, Dylan! If it was anyone else, I wouldn’t have opened the fucking door, you hear me?”

His voice has risen to a shout by the end of it, and when he finally falls quiet, slumping back to catch his breath, his chest heaves with the effort of it, Dylan standing silent and shell-shocked with his eyes wide and alarmed.

“They mean the world to me,” Owen emphasises after a good minute, voice low and rough. “You’re lucky you do too.”

“I know,” Dylan tells him softly, clearly cautious about breaking his own self-imposed silence. “I just… I typed it, I thought it would be funny, so I tweeted it and forgot about it, and… It wasn’t funny, it never was. I shouldn’t have insulted your club, I know. I’m sorry.”

Slowly, Owen nods.

“If it was anyone else…” he repeats, because he _needs_ Dylan to understand that Owen isn’t letting this go lightly, and sees Dylan swallow.

“When Jamie called me,” his boyfriend starts quietly, “I wasn’t sure what you were going to…”

Shaking his head, Dylan sucks in a sharp breath.

“Look, I’m so sorry, and I know I hurt you with that,” he tells Owen, firm and sincere. “I’ll make up for it as best as I can, alright?”

Owen can’t stay truly angry in the face of such a genuine apology – at least, not when it’s Dylan.

“You deleted it, yeah?” he checks, to a nod. “Just… Come in this afternoon, and apologise to the boys.”

“Of course,” Dylan agrees immediately. “If they’re happy to see me – or willing, at least…”

Two hours later, Owen hovers nervously, scanning over the distinctly unfriendly stares of his teammates, as Dylan prepares to apologise. He knows that none of the boys are happy with what Dylan put on twitter, because of both the insult to their club and the slight to Owen that came with it. Hopefully, though, Dylan can convince them all of his sincere regrets, because as committed as Owen is to moving on and letting Dylan make up for this, he doesn’t think he’s ready to forgive Dylan unless his teammates are.

“Afternoon,” Dylan starts carefully when everyone is sat and waiting for him. “I just… I want to tell you how sorry I am for what I put on twitter yesterday. It was thoughtless, and I thought it was funny at the time – but I know it never was. It certainly wasn’t fair to any of you boys.”

Chewing his lip, Owen glances over the guarded expressions that face Dylan once more. He wants to be out on the field with them this weekend, really, to fight back in the only way he can and support them all – and every single one of them, he knows, feels the same way, whether they will be playing or not. They’re used to closing ranks by now, and this isn’t any different; Dylan, because of what he’s done, is an outsider once more, and it will be much harder for him to fight his way back in at the moment.

“Over the last year, I’ve seen how committed you are to this club. I know how hard you all work, and I know how tight-knit you are. I shouldn’t have suggested that you wouldn’t have won your titles, or that those titles mean less than anyone else’s. I’m sorry for that, I really am. I didn’t mean to cause any offense, and I’ve deleted it. If you want me to apologise publicly, I’ll do that. Anything else to make up for it, I’ll do what I can.”

To Owen’s relief, Loz is nodding along in silence, arms folded across his chest but expression open. Ben, too, has stopped outright frowning at Dylan, though there still seems to be a slight hint of suspicion in the crease of his brow.

“Also,” Dylan clears his throat almost nervously, the glance he shoots in Owen’s direction apprehensive, “I… You all know I’ve retired. Which means I’m not playing for Saints anymore, and… while they’ll always hold a special place in my heart, I’ll be supporting you boys from now on. If you’ll let me.”

Oh. _Oh_.

Owen can only stare at his boyfriend, utterly speechless as he tries to compute what he’s just heard. Dylan is… _What_?

“So… that’s it,” Dylan nods awkwardly. “I’m sorry for that tweet, and I’ll have to buy a shirt at some point. Maybe one with ‘Farrell’ on the back.”

The small round of chuckles that receives is a good sign, Owen thinks faintly. Not that he’s really too bothered about that anymore, in the face of… whatever _that_ was. Before he can even begin to unravel how he feels about this, Dylan turns to offer him a small, almost hopeful smile, and he returns it without thinking, the realisation slowly sinking in that this could well be the end of their conflict over club loyalties.

It’s a strange thought.

It’s a _good_ thought.

“You meant it?” Owen has to check, the moment the door of his house closes behind him, and Dylan glances back, frowning in confusion. “About supporting Sarries, did you – You meant that?”

“Of course!” Dylan twists to face him properly. “Why would I say it if…? I’m not going to tell them that just so they forgive me.”

“I know,” Owen assures him, shrugging. “I just… I don’t know.”

With nothing to say, he resorts instead to surging forward, Dylan catching him with a muffled exclamation of shock as their lips meet roughly. Owen pours his excitement and relief into the kiss, mixed with his gratitude to Dylan for accepting the mistake so easily and his desire just to be close to his boyfriend once more; the past night seemed like an eternity, and now that the emotional rift has been patched over, Owen’s more than willing to take another step in healing it properly. Despite the initial surprise, Dylan takes little time to respond, hands slipping down Owen’s body to his hips and then around, groping his arse eagerly as Owen fumbles with the buttons of Dylan’s shirt.

“Am I forgiven, then?” Dylan pulls back to ask breathlessly as Owen tugs his shirt down his arms; one easy roll of Dylan’s shoulders has the fabric slipping free, and Owen disregards it at once.

“You’re forgiven,” he allows as he leans back in, fingers already falling to the fastenings of Dylan’s jeans.

“Easy,” Dylan murmurs against his lips, gripping his wrists lightly. “Let’s get to the bedroom before we get any further, yeah?”

Reminded that they’re still in the hallway, that he essentially jumped Dylan within a minute of getting home, Owen feels himself flush, and Dylan’s grin widens.

“You’re cute when you get embarrassed,” his boyfriend teases, poking him on the nose, and he can only wrinkle said appendage in protest, which gains a laugh from Dylan. “Come on. Up.”

The words are accompanied by a light pat to his arse, and Owen rolls his eyes, but starts to back away towards the stairs, tugging Dylan in for another kiss as he does so.

“Why are you treating me like a dog?” he complains when they separate once more, and Dylan’s face lights up with mischief.

“Because you’re my bitch.”

For a split second, Owen can only gape in shock, unable to summon any kind of response to the joke as Dylan’s eyes crinkle with the beginnings of humoured delight. As Dylan’s words sink in, however, he has to lean forward onto Dylan to support himself through the incredulous laughter that shakes his body, his boyfriend’s shoulders quivering with Dylan’s own chuckles.

“I can’t – I can’t believe…” he splutters, vision blurring a little as he struggles to breathe. “I can’t believe you – you _said_ that…”

Pressing his face into Dylan’s neck, he tries to get himself under control, and has just managed to take two deep breaths in a row when Dylan snorts quietly, and a fresh bout of laughter wracks his body. Dylan holds him up without protest, his hardness pressed into Owen’s thigh, and waits patiently while Owen calms himself properly, only speaking when Owen has pulled back and wiped his eyes.

“Bedroom?” the older man suggests lightly.

“Bedroom,” Owen agrees, weak as he tries to calm the flush in his cheeks. “Yeah… That.”

He takes another step towards the stairs, but Dylan stays where he is, staring at Owen with a smile that seems to hold a lot more weight than it did a moment ago.

“I really am sorry,” Dylan tells him quietly. “I promise.”

Nodding, Owen sucks in a breath.

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, people saying hi is appreciated, as is (and I probably don't say this enough) any feedback, good or bad. And any suggestions! Any ideas, however specific or vague, and... yeah. Have a good week.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... It's been an eventful while... I've actually been meaning to write this chapter since Monday, when the news dropped, but I'm kinda glad I didn't get round to more than the first few paragraphs until later in the week, because it meant I didn't get around to finishing it until after that lovely display today. (Am I the only Sarries fan who can't stop smiling Every. Single. Time I see Elliot in Saracens kit? It's just... Ah, I love it. It feels very right. Also, the partnership with Duchenne UK - I was happy to see it become official a little while back, and then to see the work today was great.)
> 
> Anyway, how's everyone been? Anyone got advice on how to stick out the waiting game when it comes to finding out if you've got an interview with Oxbridge or not? I don't even know if they bother to inform you if they decide not to interview you, and it's really bothering me, because I don't know exactly when they'll make the decision either... 
> 
> Also, I am becoming increasingly convinced that my maths teacher is very Not Straight. He's one of those men who sets off the gaydar instantly, then you have doubts as you get to know him that maybe he IS your average straight guy, and now I'm leaning towards either *very* confident in his identity as a straight male, in which case, good for him, and that's wholesome in itself, or in some way not straight, and I mean... it's a matter of probability. Not that he's particularly fond of stats (like any good mathematician...). 
> 
> I got a friend into rugby! I introduced her to Joe Marler, she fell in love, and _now_ we might be going to the Sarries/Quins match in March, which would be *amazing*!
> 
> But yes. Please enjoy. Hopefully.

Really, Dylan’s fairly sure that he should be forgiven, when he spots the miserable expression on Owen’s face on emerging from the shower, for assuming that it’s simply a hangover from yesterday’s match – and _maybe_ a slight edge of return-to-reality as well, although Dylan doubts that one; Owen’s been practically vibrating with the need to get back to Saracens for the last few days. (To be clear, Dylan’s _not_ complaining about the pent-up energy that followed Owen everywhere towards the end of their brief holiday.) Admittedly, too, Owen seemed reasonably alright with the result at the time, but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time that the younger man has pretended to be fine about something that he isn’t.

“Owen…” he sighs quietly, reaching for a t-shirt to tug it over his head, towel still wrapped around his waist, and just manages to catch the silent shake of Owen’s head before the fabric slips over his eyes. “It’s just one game.”

Owen only shakes his head again, fingers flipping his phone over and over in his hands where they hang limp between his thighs; as much as Dylan thinks it’s an over-reaction, he never likes seeing his boyfriend this dejected, so as soon as he’s dressed, he makes his way around the bed to settle on the mattress at Owen’s side, one arm settling around Owen’s shoulders to tug him in.

“It’s not the match,” Owen mutters, barely audible, and whatever he says next is far too quiet for Dylan’s hearing.

“…What?” Dylan frowns. “You’ve got to speak up, mate.”

Owen doesn’t even crack a joke about Dylan’s age.

“They’ve decided not to appeal,” he repeats, Dylan straining his ears to hear it. “We’re taking the fine and the points deduction.”

_Oh._

For a moment, Dylan struggles for anything to say. He knows exactly what Owen’s talking about, and really, it’s been coming; if Saracens were going to go for the review, they surely wouldn’t have pushed it to the deadline. Honestly, he doubts that Owen has been anywhere near as oblivious to that as the Fly-half has pretended to be, but he understands that it’s been a hard blow all the same.

Certainly, Owen looks wrecked.

“What’s the plan, then?” he comes up with finally, which seems to be the right decision, because some of the tension drains from Owen’s shoulders.

It hurts a little to realise that Owen is relieved by his reaction, that the younger man must have been anticipating something worse, and Dylan wishes he could say he doesn’t deserve that suspicion.

“We take the hit and move on,” Owen shrugs, voice still flat and worryingly dull. “I’m going in tomorrow.”

“Right,” Dylan tries not to sigh too audibly, pressing his lips into Owen’s hair instead as his boyfriend continues to stare blankly ahead; somehow, he didn’t imagine that things would be so tough after retirement. “Think you might play at the weekend?”

He feels one of Owen’s shoulders lift.

“Probably not,” Owen murmurs. “I’ll have a chat with Mark – if they’ll have me, I’ll be up for it, but I think he wanted me rested for another week.”

Trying to hide his relief at the almost-confirmation that Owen will still be looked after, Dylan nods.

“None of it was deliberate,” Owen adds, his eyes somehow bleaker than ever. “No one meant to get anything wrong. All we wanted was to work hard and make memories. It wasn’t even _about_ the result – it was the memories we’d make by doing it. With each other.”

“I know,” Dylan assures, although he’s not entirely sure he does; every club has a different culture, and while Saints are by no means outcome-driven, Saracens seem to take it to the next level.

Luckily, that appears to appease Owen somewhat.

“I – _We _don’t care what everyone thinks,” Owen tells him, as if in explanation. “As long as we know what we want, and what we’ve done, and how we’ve got where we are… That’s all that matters.”

Hearing the implicit suggestion that Dylan, along with the rest of the families of Saracens players, has been included within this little circle of people whose opinions actually matter is heart-warming. On the subject of family, though, there’s something that Dylan’s been wanting to bring up for a while, and Owen doesn’t seem to have anything else to say on the matter of the salary cap, so perhaps this will be good to take his mind off it.

“You’ve worked insanely hard,” he soothes first, trying to relax Owen a little more before he jumps into what he wants to discuss. “I know it, and so does everyone at the club.”

Mollified, Owen slumps a little further into Dylan, who shifts to get a better seat on the mattress and tugs Owen lightly around to rest against his chest, hands slipping under Owen’s arms to link across the younger man’s torso.

“You mind if some of the boys come ‘round this evening?” Owen checks quietly. “Just for a chat?”

“It’s your house,” Dylan reminds, gentle even as Owen shifts in apparent surprise; it doesn’t really feel like _Owen’s_ house, these days, so much as _theirs_. “Of course I don’t.”

“Maybe…” Owen chews his bottom lip, lifting his hands to fiddle with Dylan’s fingers. “Maybe we should think about changing that. If – If you want to make the move…?”

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” Dylan teases, all too aware of his heart thumping harder behind Owen’s head, because that proposition certainly sounds like a good one if Owen means it.

(And if he does, it will make what Dylan has to offer that much easier to get out.)

“…Yes?” Owen hedges uncertainly, blush visible, and Dylan finds himself unable to hold back a snort at the response. “I mean, you pretty much live here anyway, these days. And I think I’d – I guess I like the idea of…”

“Sounds good,” Dylan assures before Owen can get himself too worked up, and wishes that he had the flexibility to lean down and kiss Owen right now. “Sounds very, very good.”

Owen grins up at him, obviously pleased. The joyful anticipation in that stare takes Dylan’s breath away, because there’s nothing – _nothing_ – he likes more than to see Owen happy, and shit, that smile does things to him that Owen can probably feel right now – and isn’t about to ignore, if the slow shift of Owen’s hips is anything to go by. Biting back a small noise, he reaches down to still the younger man, ignoring the pang of loss as that temporary friction disappears. Now is not the time – not when they have other things to discuss.

Dylan is going to need all his wits about him for this.

“You’ve reminded me, though,” he starts carefully, “About something I’ve been considering lately.”

Owen’s eyes flicker up, curiosity shining through them to bring ever more life to the face that Dylan loves more than any other.

“What…” Dylan has to pause, clearing his throat nervously; agreeing to move in with Owen when he already seems to live here half the time is one thing, but this is really something else. “What are your, er… thoughts on marriage?”

Owen blinks – once, twice, three times – and Dylan tries not to think about the fact that he could see his boyfriend’s chest freeze mid-inhale as he asked the question, or that it still hasn’t started moving now, a good ten seconds later. Fifteen, Twenty…

“_What_?” Owen manages, seeming almost breathless – _unsurprising_, Dylan thinks absently – as blood starts to rise in his cheeks to dust the skin with a light flush. “Did you say…?”

“Marriage,” Dylan repeats. “I just… I thought maybe we could start discussing… if that’s somewhere we want to… I mean, if you’re not particularly keen on it, I understand, I just – I wanted to…?”

Owen eyes him, appearing almost amused, and distantly, Dylan reflects that it’s good to see that he’s not upset, now he’s over the shock.

“Is this what _I_ sound like when I get flustered?”

Rolling his eyes, Dylan jostles him lightly, and Owen humours him, the mischief fading to something quieter, a little more gentle and fond. A moment later, the smile falls away altogether as Owen sucks in a deep breath and seems to consider his reply, Dylan’s heart clenching at the serious nature of this new expression.

“I’ve always wanted to get married,” Owen admits after several long, almost torturous seconds. “Ever since my mum and dad…”

Almost unconsciously, his thumb lifts, and Dylan watches him chew at it anxiously, waiting with as much patience as he can manage for a continuation.

“When they legalised it, I was…” Owen shrugs, “Happy. Ecstatic. But then I realised that I didn’t have anyone I wanted to – you know… And I didn’t think I ever would, but…”

“Is this your way of saying, ‘Yes, that sounds like a good idea, Dylan’?” Dylan can’t help but tease, if only to relieve the tension he can feel forming in Owen’s shoulders once more.

Faintly embarrassed, Owen huffs out a laugh.

“Maybe,” comes the muttered response. “…Yes. What – What about you…?”

“You think I’d be asking if I wasn’t interested in it at some point?” Dylan raises an eyebrow, Owen lifting one sheepish shoulder to concede the point. “Maybe… Not quite yet. We could sort out living together first, see how it goes when we can’t just spend some time in different parts of the country after arguments?”

Owen’s body quivers with a silent huff of amused agreement.

“Sounds…” he trails off, stretching up with a quiet groan of exertion for a shaky kiss before dropping back down between Dylan’s thighs, “…Like a plan.”

“Dyls!” Elliot Daly cheers on stepping through the door behind Jamie, apparently delighted to see him, and Dylan allows himself a touch of fondness for the younger man as he accepts Elliot’s overly enthusiastic hug with as much grace as he can muster, all too aware of Owen and Jamie laughing quietly to the side.

It’s more than worth it to see Owen’s expression when Elliot ploughs onwards to envelope him in an embrace of his own.

“Careful, mate,” Jamie teases as Owen grunts slightly. “Don’t damage the goods.”

“Oh, yeah…”

Stepping back, Elliot grimaces in apology.

“Sorry, Dyls – I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

Choking on laughter at the indignant mortification on Owen’s face, Dylan summons the only fitting reply he can think of to that small stroke of genius.

“It’s fine, mate,” he assures. “I don’t mind sharing.”

Owen’s squawk of protest is entirely drowned out by Jamie’s delighted cackle, the beam that Elliot flashes in Dylan’s direction full of delight.

“Shove it, Dyl,” Owen warns as he waves his clubmates through to the kitchen for coffee.

“Or what?” Dylan prods, amused by the narrowing of Owen’s eyes.

“What was it you said about roleplay the other week?” Owen asks, innocent tone clashing with the fondly threatening glare he directs at Dylan. “Behave, or I’ll spank you.”

That gets a laugh out of Dylan.

“I’d like to see you try,” he tells his boyfriend, biting back further amusement at the thought. “If anyone’s getting spanked, it’s not going to be me.”

“Yeah?” Owen steps closer, clearly happy to make full use of his height advantage. “How’re you planning to manage that one, then?”

It’s all too easy to press Owen back against the bannister, taking firm hold of the railings to keep him trapped there as Dylan leans in to nip at his bottom lip; Owen’s mouth falls open automatically, a free invitation, and he can’t resist indulging for several seconds, until Owen’s hand creeps up his shirt to pinch one nipple in silent revenge.

“Jesus fucking –”

Biting down on the rest of his curse, he grits his teeth and ignores the pain, nudging Owen’s thighs apart with one knee instead and smirking as Owen mouths a silent swear word at the friction he provides.

“For that,” he murmurs, ducking in to snatch another, shorter kiss, “You might just get to find out.”

Is it his imagination, or have Owen’s pupils expanded within the last few seconds? Of course, that might just be down to the movement of his knee…

“Good luck with that,” Owen snorts, defiant to the end even as his hips rock slightly to grind against Dylan’s thigh. “Bet you couldn’t manage it if I was blindfolded.”

“We can try that, too,” Dylan presses, Owen’s cheeks flushing as he appears to realise what he’s just said.

“That’s not what I –”

“Lads, drop the kinky shit!” Elliot announces from the kitchen doorway, in the process of tucking his phone into his pocket as Jamie laughs silently behind him. “The doorbell’s gone twice while you’ve been having your little make-out session.”

Fighting to hide his embarrassment, Dylan steps away from Owen with a cough to clear his throat but finds himself unable to brush aside the glee at seeing how affected Owen is by their little… encounter, his erection straining against the front of his jeans. Dylan’s not much better, but unlike Owen, he’s managed to avoid facing their guests.

Hopefully, whoever’s outside won’t notice the state he’s in.

“What were you doing with that phone?” he hears Owen demand behind him. “Let me see your camera roll.”

“Aw, Faz…”

“Elliot…”

“Faz…”

“Evening, lads,” Dylan manages as he comes face to face with George, Jackson Wray and, to his surprise, Will Fraser – though maybe he should have expected Will’s presence, because he might not be a player anymore, but he’s still invested in the club, and certainly has a close friendship with Owen. “Come on in – are we expecting anyone else soon…?”

“Don’t know,” George admits, shrugging. “Owen just put an open invitation on the chat – I know a few more lads will be over at some point, but…”

“Fair enough,” Dylan shrugs. “Elliot, if you wanted to watch something like that, you could always ask.”

“For fuck’s…” Elliot groans, huffing as he hands over his phone for Owen to delete the photos or video in question. “Way to make it weird, mate.”

“Thank you very much,” Dylan returns cheerfully, unable to resist reaching down to pat Owen lightly on the arse as he leads their new guests through to the kitchen; the look Owen shoots him tells him that his boyfriend knows _exactly_ what that gesture meant.

It’s several rounds of coffee and almost an hour later that the mood finally turns serious, Dylan mildly impressed by Owen’s ability to fit what appears to be a full starting line-up’s worth of players into his living room without any complaints or discomfort.

“I thought we were going to appeal,” Alex Lozowski admits quietly, nursing a mug in his hands as he settles his elbows on his knees. “I mean, I get why we’re not, I suppose, but…”

Looking away, the young Centre shrugs.

“I just thought we were going to,” he sighs. “And apparently taking the punishment is as good as saying we’re guilty.”

“The other clubs and their fans can say what they want,” Owen announces, a little sharply but not without understanding, and it’s strange to see him fill this confident, reliable leadership role at home, when Dylan’s only ever seen it come out in camp with England before. “What matters is what we know, right, boys? What we know. They don’t matter. We’re going to show them on the pitch. On the _pitch_, lads.”

Brad nods in agreement, lifting his coffee in a salute of acknowledgement to Owen.

“We’re Saracens,” the Captain announces. “You know what they say: everyone hates us – we know that. And we don’t care, understood? We’ve got our fans, we’ve got each other – we’re one family, right? And we do right by those who matter – by each other.”

The quiet murmur of agreement has Dylan feeling increasingly like an outsider, but he finds he doesn’t so much mind, as long as they’re happy enough not to kick him out. Seeing their unity is heart-warming, and as much as Saints will _always_ have his loyalty as a player, he’s not sure he would have minded playing with these lads.

“Now’s the time to step up,” Jamie offers. “We’ve got a long season ahead of us, we can’t deny it. There’s been some good shifts already this season, yeah? But now everyone’s on us, and we’ve got to show them what’s what. We’re together, on and off the pitch.”

“You remember,” Owen jumps back in, “What Nigel’s done for us – for all of us. And every time they attack him, or us directly, you direct that inwards. Not outwards, not to them. Not in anger. But in making us more united, right? More united, because they want to see us break apart. We’re loyal to him, because that’s what he’s been to us, and to each other, right, lads?”

“We’re a team,” Brad tells them all. “More than that, we’re a family. We fight for and with each other. What’s happened, whether the ruling or the punishment is right or not – we’ve got time to talk about that when we’re in the clear. Right now, it doesn’t matter. What matters is, we stick together, and we work through it. And we make memories on the way.”

It’s cold. Owen can’t deny that, as he hunches in his coat to watch his teammates play, he’s glad that he didn’t beg Mark to let him carry the water on, because as desperate as he is for any involvement he can possibly get, he’d rather not start next week with some sort of virus. Still, it’s been a good day, the interviews he was dragged into somehow less arduous than they might normally seem, and certainly, it was good to see Jack and the rest of the kids again.

Owen’s chest still warms every time he remembers the hug he received, and maybe it’s waking up his desire for children of his own again, but that’s just something to discuss with Dylan later. After all, they’re moving in, marriage is on the cards… and Owen distinctly remembers Dylan suggesting that they consider starting a family after he retired.

Maybe the time is right, now.

Again, that’s something for later, when Dylan is back from Bedford. For now, Owen has a game to watch.

And he has a good feeling about this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... *coughs* That just... happened? And then I left it in there...? Two men who have had their insecurities and have spent most of their lives in environments where being the alpha-male is key just... being comfortable enough to tease each other. Good wholesome stuff, y'know. And also my way of acknowledging that aspect of their relationship as a significant part without having to write a sex scene, because as tempted as I am... I do *not* dare to go there. 
> 
> Any feedback is appreciated, even if you want to say this is shit, y'know...? I mean, I'd prefer to be given a reason if you DO think so, but there we go. Or say hi. Let me know what club you support, or what you want to read if it's not already on here - or what you want to read more of. Something. I like meeting new people. I ended up getting an AO3 account because I got chatting to another author on here. Any suggestions of where these two could go, of any other pairings or general thoughts, of anything Saracens or England related...
> 
> (Yes, I'm lonely, because I'm trying to distance myself from some of my current friends for the good of my mental health. You got me. Ah, I'm going to regret this in the morning.)

**Author's Note:**

> Is that too much italicisation? I don't know. Maybe.


End file.
